


A Spring Shut Up, A Fountain Sealed

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, sacred prostitution, this is the historical fantasy religious sex worker AU no one asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-19
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-02 01:01:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1050651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Les Misérables/Kushiel’s Legacy fusion focusing on Les Amis in the setting of the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers. As cracky and cliché-laden as it gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spring Shut Up, A Fountain Sealed

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have a crossover starring Grantaire as a bitter artist and Éponine, Enjolras, Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet, and Jehan as, well, sacred prostitutes. I say ‘crossover’ but I’ve basically just borrowed Jacqueline Carey’s universe/societal setup, the essential elements being:
> 
> 1\. Setting is a historical fantasy version of medieval France called Terre d’Ange, where prostitution is a sacred act, a way of worshiping Naamah, D’Angeline deity of sexuality; because of this, prostitutes hold quite a high status in society.  
> 2\. It is blasphemous for anyone to be forced into Naamah’s Service or forced to take assignations.  
> 3\. The Court of Night-Blooming Flowers, otherwise known as the Night Court, is a band of thirteen houses of courtesans (Alyssum, Balm, Bryony, Camellia, Cereus, Dahlia, Eglantine, Gentian, Heliotrope, Jasmine, Mandrake, Orchis and Valerian) based in the capital city of Terre d’Ange.  
> 4\. Each house has its own particular canon and produces adepts to cater to a particular taste. They are considered the most elite and skilled of Naamah’s Servants.  
> 5\. Children may be born into a house, or they may be sold into one. Any children who fit the house canon are kept, any who don’t will have their marques sold to other houses.  
> 6\. Naamah’s Servants are not permitted to start taking patrons until they’re sixteen.  
> 7\. All of Naamah’s Servants bear elaborate tattoos, or marques, on their backs. Any patron gifts an adept earns will go to the marquist for the completion of their marque. Once an adept has made their marque, they are free to either leave the house or stay and give a portion of their earnings to it.

On the Longest Night in the City of Elua, there is only one place worth being: the Midwinter Masque hosted by Cereus, First of Thirteen Houses, in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers situated at the top of Mont Nuit. The most elite in Naamah’s service gather and mingle freely for one night with nobles, royalty, and adepts of other houses—so, of course, Grantaire isn’t supposed to be there.

He never lets that keep him from making an appearance. Éponine is more than happy to help, and when Éponine puts her mind to something it’s a safe bet that that thing will be happening.

‘This event is for adepts and guests of the Night Court. You are not an adept, Grantaire,’ the Dowayne of Eglantine house, Raphaël nó Eglantine, had told him sternly.  _Flawed goods_ , Grantaire had thought bitterly, but neither of them had said it. ‘We have standards to uphold. This year, if I find you have disobeyed me again, I will be forced to take disciplinary action.’

Ordinarily this would have given Grantaire pause. It was not a new threat—last year he’d been whipped for getting caught at the Masque—but when Raphaël nó Eglantine mentioned the phrase ‘disciplinary action’, he meant business. A house like Eglantine, full of wilful artists, players, clothiers, and tumblers, indulged its adepts’ unorthodox tendencies up to a point, but it was extremely effective in its punishments. It had to be.

But it was the Longest Night, and the Midwinter Masque hosted by Cereus was going on not fifteen minutes from where he slept. Whatever punishment Raphaël nó Eglantine devised for him could be borne.

So he donned the clothes Favrielle had wordlessly left on the end of his bed before she left for the night. They were beautiful, of course; it was Favrielle’s work. He knew he was lucky that she allowed him to handle the same fabric as her, let alone actually  _wear_  her creations.

In keeping with tradition, each house dressed according to a theme, and this year Eglantine had drawn inspiration from the Eiran legends of the fae. As such, he was dressed as a member of the Seelie court as interpreted by the greatest clothier in the City: predominantly velvet and silk, all soft greys and silvers, accented with flashes of deep forest-green. The mask was an intricate and finely-wrought framework of curiously knotted silver wire, which did little more than frame his eyes, but with his distinctive black curls it wasn’t as if he’d have gone unrecognised for long anyway. She had even included a pair of exquisitely soft black leather boots—calf’s hide, he’d bet anything on it. Never let it be said Favrielle nó Eglantine did anything by halves.

Éponine had arranged it so that it was an easy matter to slip in through the kitchens at the back of Cereus house—nodding and smiling to the half-dozen kitchen staff he was on friendly terms with—and choose an opportune moment to sidle into the crowd of revellers.

Bossuet and Bahorel were on him in a heartbeat. It wasn’t yet midnight, but both of them were drunk, to judge by the way they clung heavily to him and cackled raucously in his ear—not that raucous cackling was all that unusual from adepts of Orchis house. It was more or less what they  _did_.

‘Éponine said you’d be here,’ Bossuet said excitedly, ‘but we weren’t sure whether you’d make it!’

Grantaire smiled. ‘You honestly believe I’d miss this? It’s the Longest Night, boys, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’

Bahorel clapped him on the back, which nearly sent him sprawling—the man was a giant—and then he beckoned over one of the younger initiates who were busily running around the hall distributing  _joie_  to the guests. They all snatched up glasses and—‘ _Joie!_ ’—downed them before the next dance began.

Bossuet caught the eye of the sandy-haired Balm adept to whom he’d taken a liking over the past few months—ever since he’d been sent to him for treatment of a nasty burn on his hand from an unlikely incident involving a candle and a serving girl (not, thankfully, a patron). Bahorel and Grantaire rolled their eyes as he excused himself to go dance with the man.

‘He  _is_  pretty,’ Bahorel admitted fairly as they stood on the sidelines and watched.

‘Who? Bossuet?’

‘Joly,’ Bahorel snorted. ‘The Balm adept.’

‘Is that his name? Yes, he’s pretty. This is the Night Court, you’re  _all_  pretty.’

Bahorel elbowed him in the ribs. ‘You say that as if you weren’t one of us.’

‘There’s a reason I had to sneak in tonight,’ Grantaire said. ‘I’m not an adept, remember?’

Bahorel scoffed. ‘Not for lack of beauty. You, my friend, are a victim of unfair circumstance.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes. To his relief, they were interrupted at that moment by Éponine descending upon the both of them. She looked exceptionally beautiful tonight, with her long auburn hair swept up in elaborate coils and her lithe frame encased in a daringly boyish silver-and-grey creation similar to Grantaire’s; her brown eyes burned brightly behind her silver eye mask as she smiled.

‘You came,’ she said to Grantaire. ‘I’m glad. Dance with me before the night is through,’ she ordered.

‘Alright,’ he said meekly.

She looked him over briefly and her smile widened into a grin. ‘Favrielle is a genius. You’re breaking my heart, R.’

He shoved her halfheartedly. ‘You look infuriatingly beautiful, as usual.’

She hummed, pleased, and kissed his cheek. ‘If I see Raphaël anywhere near you I’ll do my best to distract him.’ She glanced up at Bahorel, smiling. ‘Or you could just hide behind this colossus.’

Bahorel made her an elaborate obeisance, which had him bending almost in half and near touching his forehead to the floor, and said with exaggerated reverence, ‘As my sharp-tongued faery lady wishes.’

Éponine laughed delightedly and took the opportunity to flip herself lightly onto his shoulders as he straightened. She was a mere slip of a girl, and Bahorel took her weight easily, although he blinked and laughed in surprise when she scrambled upright, one foot on each of his shoulders.

Eglantine house had bought Éponine’s marque when she was seven years old, because she had proved too brazen for Cereus, and demonstrated an agility and fearlessness that leant itself wonderfully to tumbling. Grantaire smiled as he watched her place her hands on her hips and begin declaiming a passage from the Ysandrine Cycle, much to the delighted mirth of the guests surrounding them.

And then he saw him. He was standing across the room, and he had had his back to him, speaking to someone, but then they left and he turned and Grantaire saw his face and—

‘Oh,’ he said faintly, although no one was paying attention.

There was an angel across the room, and everyone was behaving as if it were just another Midwinter Masque. The angel was so faultlessly formed it almost taunted the eye to look at, as if daring the beholder to seek a flaw where it would find none; fair-skinned and blue-eyed, with masses of golden hair that seemed unsure whether to curl or wave, and so made an attempt at doing both. The end effect was vaguely reminiscent of a lion’s mane. He looked fierce, and proud, and Grantaire had to remind himself to breathe.

Grantaire was no stranger to beauty. He had lived in the Night Court all his life, the home of the most prized courtesans in the world, each of them more exquisitely lovely than the last—but never had he laid eyes on anyone who had made him feel like this: like his heart was trying to escape from his chest, like there suddenly wasn’t enough air in the room.

The man was an adept, of that much Grantaire was certain—he carried himself with the grace and pride instilled in every adept of the Night Court—but of which house? His costume was unhelpful in this regard, since Grantaire had missed the start of the night, and didn’t know which house had gone with a Hellene deity theme. He was Apollo, Grantaire supposed—who else could he be, with such golden hair?

He didn’t seem particularly taken with the idea of a masquerade, if the sleek gold domino dangling from his fingertips was any indication; but Grantaire could hardly complain, since it left his face clearly visible. He was so perfect that Grantaire had to consider the possibility that he was a Camellia adept—‘without fault or flaw’, as their house words decreed—but he saw the haughty look in those larkspur-blue eyes and noted the way his spine was so straight and his head held so high, and quickly amended his assessment: this man  _had_  to belong to Dahlia, whose canon was pride and dignity, who believed that Naamah had bestowed herself like a queen.

Grantaire had walked all the way across the room without even realizing he was moving. He stopped dead in his tracks when the golden-haired man looked at him, carelessly, not really seeing him because he had no reason to, after all—they were not acquainted, and Grantaire, Grantaire was nothing special to look at, he wasn’t even an adept—

‘Grantaire!’ someone cried happily, and he found himself accosted by a petite young man with a long strawberry-blond braid: Jehan, a young Gentian adept to whom Grantaire had played patron more than once over the years. ‘It’s been an age!’ he was saying. There was an uncharacteristic flush on his cheeks from the  _joie_  he’d been drinking. It only made him prettier, with his guileless blue-grey eyes and his sweet smile. ‘Have you grown tired of me, or do you wish to keep your dreams a secret from me now?’

‘You know I have no secrets from you.’ He smiled at the smaller man, then glanced up to see if the golden-haired adept was still there. He was, and now he was eyeing the pair of them with something that might have been considered interest if he hadn’t been so damned superior about it.

Jehan followed his look, and said, ‘Oh!—I didn’t see you there, Enjolras! Do you two know each other?’

There was an awkward pause, and Grantaire muttered, ‘No,’ before Jehan took the golden-haired man’s hand and pulled him to stand beside him.

‘What better night to make new acquaintances?’ Jehan purred, favouring Grantaire with a knowing smile. ‘Enjolras, this is Grantaire. Grantaire, Enjolras. You are both wonderful so I know you’ll get along, but I think I hear Solène calling me, so if you’ll forgive me—!’

And with that, he promptly vanished into the crowd, leaving Grantaire face-to-face with an angel— _Enjolras_ , even his name was striking and gorgeous and everything Grantaire wasn’t.

‘I, er,’ he stammered, wanting absurdly to apologise, although he’d done nothing wrong.

‘It’s an Eiran myth, isn’t it?’ Enjolras interrupted. His tone was measured, formal, not quite cold. He toyed with the mask in his hands as he spoke, which would have seemed a nervous gesture if it had been anyone else doing it; as it was, it merely seemed that he was bored.

Grantaire blinked. ‘Pardon?’

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. ‘Your costume.’

‘Oh—yes. The faery court.’ He hesitated. ‘And you’re, what? Apollo?’

‘Yes,’ Enjolras said, looking down at himself with faint distaste. He dropped his mask carelessly on a passing tray, rattling the empty glasses it held, and earning a startled look from the tray’s young bearer. ‘Original, isn’t it?’

Grantaire laughed, but it came out slightly hysterical so he stopped quickly. ‘It’s, er, well, it’s recognisable at least.’

‘We can’t all have the benefit of Favrielle nó Eglantine’s genius,’ Enjolras said coolly.

‘I’m not really an adept, so technically I’m not supposed to, either,’ Grantaire heard himself babbling.

Enjolras frowned slightly. ‘What do you mean, not really an adept? Are you an adept, or aren’t you?’

‘I’m not,’ Grantaire admitted. His mask was becoming steadily more irritating to wear, so he pushed it up onto his head. ‘Eglantine owns my marque and I have to buy it back, of course, but I’m not permitted to take assignations to do it. I’m flawed goods. The Night Court has standards to uphold, and all that. I mostly get by on painting commissions instead.’

And then Enjolras was looking him over, studying him, searching for the flaw, and it was humiliating but it was also strangely exhilarating, like leaping off something very high up and feeling the wind rush past as gravity took hold.

‘It’s my bloodline,” Grantaire supplied without being asked. ‘My mother was the Second of Cereus house for a while, which sounds like an impressive pedigree until I mention my father.’ He could feel his smile turning bitter despite himself. ‘My father was a Yeshuite, of all things, and he passed on rather more unfortunate traits than the Night Court can allow for. I can grow a beard, for one.’

Enjolras looked positively startled, which was simultaneously satisfying and soul-crushing. ‘Really?’ he demanded. He looked as if he was resisting the urge to ask if he could touch his face. In most D’Angeline men, the blood of angels still ran too strong for body hair to be a commonplace masculine trait. Grantaire had never met another D’Angeline who had to shave.

He nodded, and tried to look as if it didn’t bother him all that much; and then Enjolras said, ‘But that’s—forgive me—that’s  _fascinating_. Why should that prevent you from taking assignations?’

Grantaire blushed, and then hated himself for blushing, but he couldn’t help it when this breathtakingly gorgeous man was watching him so intently and calling his flaws fascinating, looking for all the world as if he  _meant_  it. ‘D’Angeline courtesans don’t shave,’ he said faintly, because really, that should have been obvious.

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed. ‘ _You_  do, and there’s no other reason why you couldn’t enter Naamah’s service, is there?’

Grantaire’s blush deepened. ‘I’m hardly fit for the Night Court,’ he muttered. ‘You must admit, if there’s one thing D’Angelines appreciate it’s beauty, and nowhere more so than here. They are right to reject me. There  _are_  standards, and they exist for a reason.’

Enjolras frowned again. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. You said your mother belonged to Cereus—you didn’t have to tell me that, I can see it in your face. Your hair doesn’t fit their canon but your features are pure Cereus.’

Grantaire blinked. He had often been told he took after his mother, but no one had ever described him like that, linking him to a specific house, as if he were a child of the Night Court in truth.

‘You’re not blond, so that rules out Cereus and Dahlia,’ Enjolras continued thoughtfully, eyeing Grantaire’s dark curls, ‘and I suppose you’re too fair for Jasmine, but other than that I see no good reason why you shouldn’t be readily accepted as an adept of any house.’

‘You’re very direct,’ was all Grantaire could think to say, and to his surprise, Enjolras seemed to recoil from it.

‘My apologies,’ he said stiffly. ‘I’m told it’s an unfortunate tendency of mine.’

‘Not unfortunate,’ Grantaire said swiftly. ‘I appreciate honesty. And you were being kind—thank you.’

‘I merely spoke my mind,’ Enjolras said, recovering his haughtiness (he  _must_ belong to Dahlia), but seeming to relax into it slightly.

Grantaire smiled. ‘Dahlia?’ he asked, needing to verify his thought.

Enjolras actually gave a small smile in response. ‘Oh, yes. Upright and Unbending, isn’t it obvious?’

‘I did entertain the idea of Camellia,’ Grantaire admitted.

‘Camellia. Without Fault or Flaw?’ Enjolras raised an eyebrow. ‘I shall take that as a compliment.’

‘Please do,’ Grantaire said, laughing nervously. ‘I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it by now, but you are divinely beautiful. It’s quite unfair.’

‘Unfair?’

‘You make it impossible to take any notice of all the other lovely creatures here tonight,’ Grantaire explained, and he  _knew_  he didn’t usually flirt this terribly, but it seemed he couldn’t help himself; those larkspur-blue eyes were reducing him to a babbling mess.

Enjolras was an adept of the Night Court, so he took this piece of flattery in stride with a smile that was more gracious than coy, but for a moment his gaze warmed.

A small, thin hand slipped into Grantaire’s, and suddenly Éponine was by his side, grinning impishly as she shouted in his ear about owing her a dance. She seemed quite drunk, but Grantaire estimated she could probably handle a few more rounds of  _joie_  before she started getting really rowdy.

‘’Ponine!’ He interrupted, raising his eyebrows urgently and hoping she wasn’t too drunk to take a hint.

She finally seemed to notice that he’d been talking to someone, and her eyes widened as she took in the sight of Enjolras. ‘Oh!’ she squeaked, and hid her smile behind her hand. ‘I’m interrupting! My apologies, R!’

‘None required,’ he said, relieved. ‘Éponine, this is Enjolras—Enjolras, this is my good friend Éponine.’

‘You’re very beautiful,’ she informed Enjolras bluntly, eyeing him appraisingly. ‘Dahlia, yes?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, looking slightly wary.

She smiled. ‘You certainly look the part.’

It was a backhanded compliment, but he barely batted an eyelash at it. ‘My thanks, Mistress Fae,’ he replied with a slight, ironic bow.

She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment before breaking into a bright smile. ‘I’m off to find a partner for this dance,’ she announced, and added airily, ‘Be sweet to R, won’t you? I do love him  _awfully_. And I know where you live!’ Before she darted off into the crowd.

‘Éponine!’ Grantaire cried despairingly. But then Enjolras  _laughed_ , and Grantaire decided not to stay upset with her for too long.  ‘Please don’t pay any attention to her,’ he begged. ‘She’s drunk. Well. She’s like that even when she _isn’t_ , but—’

‘Then you don’t want me to be sweet to you?’ Enjolras asked with exaggerated innocence, and Grantaire blinked and stuttered and then fell silent, flustered. Enjolras took pity on him. ‘Why did she call you R?’

‘It’s a stupid pun,’ Grantaire muttered. ‘Grantaire— _grand R_? It was immensely clever when I was twelve,’ he said wryly. ‘Unfortunately it stuck, and now I have the pleasure of explaining to beautiful men the idiotic origins of my nickname.’

Enjolras laughed again, and Grantaire wondered wildly if it was possible to become addicted to sounds. ‘I’ve heard much worse. I had a patron—’ he broke off suddenly, catching himself. He looked around, blinked, and looked back at Grantaire before leaning in conspiratorially and lowering his voice. ‘We do not _gossip_  in Dahlia house,’ he informed him primly, clearly in imitation of some authority figure, and Grantaire grinned. Enjolras smiled in return and nodded towards one of the doors leading to the garden. ‘Join me?’

Grantaire nodded quickly. He followed Enjolras out the door, finding himself distracted anew by the thin fabric of the toga he wore and the fact that it showcased his rear to great effect. Before his brain could become scrambled enough that he might mention this fact aloud, he tore his eyes away and stared hard at a bit of foliage. It rustled oddly, and emitted a giggle and a soft sigh, and he moved away from it, not wishing to find out if that particular bush contained someone he happened to know.

Enjolras had paused and was watching him over his shoulder with eyebrows raised. ‘Something wrong?’

‘No,’ Grantaire said firmly, because  _you’ve got a fantastically distracting arse_ didn’t sound like something he’d had anywhere near enough drinks to say out loud; at any rate, Enjolras probably knew that already.

Enjolras tilted his head slightly and eyed him as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. But all he said was, ‘Are you coming?—Or do you want to climb in with them and try your luck?’

Grantaire glanced back at the rustling bushes. ‘It doesn’t sound like they’d appreciate the interruption,’ he said, and followed Enjolras deeper into the garden.

It was beautiful, as all things were in the Night Court. There were deep, shadowy recesses around the perimeter, half of which seemed to be occupied already, but the garden itself was lush and carefully tended. For all that it was midwinter, it wasn’t especially cold; the garden was sheltered on all sides by the high walls of the house, and dotted with braziers that were radiant with heat. Enjolras made a beeline for a small pond that Grantaire hadn’t been aware of.

‘Do you come here often?’ he asked curiously, watching Enjolras settle himself on one of two carved stone benches by the water.

He did not  _shrug_ —the movement was too elegant to be called a shrug—but he shifted both shoulders minutely and lifted his open palms in a gesture that was both regal and unconsciously lovely. ‘I know a girl who lives here. She lets me in here sometimes. Not like that,’ he added, seeing Grantaire’s look. ‘She prefers women. I come here to think.’

Grantaire sat beside him, careful to leave a couple of handspans between them. ‘Eglantine’s gardens are better,’ he said. ‘We have a few adepts who have turned gardening into artistic expression. You should see it in summer.’

Enjolras turned a thoughtful gaze on him. ‘You’re not supposed to be here, are you? That’s what you meant earlier. You aren’t an adept.’

Grantaire ducked his head. ‘Ah. Yes. Likely I’ll be whipped for being here. Éponine sneaked me in.’

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. ‘Whipped,’ he repeated flatly.

Grantaire shrugged. ‘It’s not so bad. It was five last year, maybe this year it’ll be ten. I can handle ten.’

‘You’re  _serious_?’

Grantaire grinned. ‘Weren’t you ever naughty as a child? They punish you when you step out of line, that’s how rules work.’

Enjolras regarded him with undisguised amazement. ‘And you still chose to be here? Is it really  _worth_  it?’

Grantaire met his eyes and felt his smile fade. ‘Yes,’ he said after a moment.

Enjolras’ lips parted in surprise and he lowered his gaze. For a few seconds silence reigned, and then he looked up and said, ‘It’s my first time here. At the Masque, I mean.’

‘That explains why I haven’t seen you before. How old are you?’

‘I’ll be nineteen in three days. I was ill last year, but—’ another elegant not-shrug ‘—this year I had no such excuse.’

‘You didn’t  _want_  to come?’ Grantaire asked incredulously.

Enjolras winced. ‘I suppose you’re the last person I should be saying that to. But no. I’m not much for drinking and dancing.’

‘We’re doing neither,’ Grantaire pointed out.

Enjolras smiled. ‘No. We’re sitting in the middle of the garden and being quite antisocial instead.’

‘ _Selectively_  social,’ Grantaire corrected with a grin.

Enjolras cocked his head thoughtfully again. ‘You mentioned painting, earlier. You’re an artist?’

Grantaire shrugged. ‘It’s why Eglantine bought my marque. I was born to Cereus, obviously, but I was rather more interested in drawing than anything else they had to teach me.’

‘You must have shown remarkable talent. As I understand it, Eglantine doesn’t take just anyone.’

Grantaire snorted. ‘I get by.’

‘Maybe I’ll commission something from you when I make my marque,’ Enjolras said lightly. ‘I won’t stay at the Night Court any longer than I must, but I don’t intend to withdraw from Naamah’s Service. I suppose I’ll open a salon. Could you manage a mural, do you think?’

Grantaire glanced at him. ‘I don’t see why not. And how far off will that be?’

‘Not too long, I hope.’ He shifted his shoulders, as if suddenly aware of the weight of the material against his skin. Grantaire wondered if he’d paid a recent visit to the marquist. ‘I’ve a handspan left to go.’

Grantaire let out a low whistle. ‘Either you have very wealthy patrons, or you’re extremely talented. Or both.’

‘I get by,’ Enjolras said wryly.

‘It’s a shame you couldn’t take any assignations tonight,’ Grantaire commented. ‘You mightn’t like the costume, but it flatters you beautifully. I wish I could paint you.’

He realized half a second later what he’d said, and his horror must have shown on his face because Enjolras  _grinned_  at him—not a carefully cultivated courtesan’s expression, but an honest smile with teeth and laughter on the edge of it. ‘You can, if you like,’ was all he said.

‘Don’t tease,’ Grantaire muttered.

‘I’m not.’

Grantaire looked at him and frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

Enjolras looked at him quite seriously and said, ‘Give me a time and a place and I’ll find a way to sit for you.’

It was an outrageous suggestion. Grantaire resisted the urge to gape at him. ‘Your Dowayne would allow you that?’

‘Of course not,’ Enjolras said, a devious smile spread across his face. ‘I said I’ll find a way. Trust me.’

‘Why?’ Grantaire asked, bewildered.

‘Because you wish it,’ Enjolras said simply. ‘Because I’m a little drunk, and you’re the most interesting person I’ve met in a long while. Because you’re half in love with me already and I want to do something to deserve it.’

Grantaire’s heart clattered against his ribcage and he hoped it was too dark to see how fiercely he was blushing. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he found himself babbling, ‘you just met me, and I’m not worth the risk at any rate—’

‘Give me a time and a place,’ Enjolras interrupted, calm and perfectly imperious. ‘I won’t ask again.’

‘Did they consider you for Mandrake?’ Grantaire said weakly. It was meant jokingly, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine Enjolras as a Mandrake adept. Mandrake’s canon was sadism and domination; it was the partner house to Valerian, whose canon was the propensity to find pleasure in the extremities of pain. Both had a much smaller clientele than the rest of the houses in the Night Court.

Enjolras chose to ignore the question. Grantaire bit his lip and asked cautiously, ‘Do you know the back gate to Eglantine’s gardens?’

‘Yes,’ Enjolras replied without hesitation. ‘When?’

‘A week from now. Is dawn too early?’

‘No, it’s not. I’ll be there.’

 

⁂

He was.

 

⁂

In the spreading thaw of spring, Enjolras stole away to sit for Grantaire whenever he could manage it.

It wasn’t that adepts were forbidden to take lovers outside of Naamah’s Service—desire in all its forms was sacred to Naamah, and no one committed to her service would dare interfere with it—but until an adept made their marque, their time was not their own, and not one of the houses in the Night Court would allow any of their bonded adepts to while away their time sitting for a strange half-Yeshuite painter with a fondness for wine.  It was an open secret among the adepts of both Eglantine and Dahlia; but there was a sense of camaraderie in the Night Court, and most certainly a sense of romance. Not a word of it reached the ears of their Dowaynes or their Seconds.

The only flaw in this thinking was, of course, that they weren’t lovers. Grantaire would have sooner cut off his hands than touch Enjolras without permission, and sooner cut out his tongue than ask for permission where Enjolras did not freely offer it of his own accord; Enjolras allowed him to look, intently and at length, and that was enough. To his thinking, it was more than he deserved.

 Enjolras, for his part, remained silent on the subject of Grantaire’s obvious infatuation with him. He never missed an appointment with him, never objected to being posed uncomfortably or required to stay still for long stretches of time, and obviously thought nothing of removing his clothes—why should he, when he did most of his life’s work naked? Grantaire was quite at ease with that aspect of it; he had been raised among courtesans, plenty of them performers, and if he had ever had any sense of modesty it had long since been forgotten—at least where people other than himself were concerned. He was more likely to drop his gaze and become flustered if Enjolras favoured him with one of his rare true smiles, or complimented Grantaire’s work.

‘The night we met, I asked if they’d ever considered you for Mandrake,’ Grantaire said one day as he sketched a clothed Enjolras in the shade of an old oak tree. ‘You never did answer.’

Enjolras’ expression didn’t change, exactly, but his gaze sharpened slightly. He was sprawled on the grass, his hair spilling over one arm where he rested his head, looking indolent and breathtaking without even meaning to. Grantaire had settled on an elaborately carved wooden bench a few feet away to draw him.

‘They said I had the temperament for Mandrake, but the idea of hurting anyone makes me feel ill, even if they ask for it.’

‘Ah.’

‘Were you ever initiated?’ Enjolras asked curiously.

Grantaire snorted and shook his head. ‘Even at thirteen it was obvious I wasn’t fit for dedication to Naamah.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.’

Grantaire looked up at the irritation in Enjolras’ tone, surprised. The blond was glaring at him as if he was genuinely offended, but he’d been trained in Dahlia house: that was almost his default expression.

‘It’s the truth,’ Grantaire said guardedly.

‘Truth is subjective,’ Enjolras retorted. ‘There’s nothing  _unfit_  about you.’

Grantaire only raised his eyebrows at him before he returned his attention to his sketch.

‘I don’t care what your Dowayne says,’ Enjolras continued stubbornly, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘I don’t care what the Night Court thinks. We cater to so many different predilections; isn’t variety the point?’

‘ _Flawless_  variety, perhaps,’ Grantaire said, subdued. This was his least favourite subject in the world, but if Enjolras wanted to discuss it then discuss it they would.

‘Don’t be absurd. Every human being has flaws. The denizens of Mont Nuit are no exception.’

‘I was referring to physical flaws,’ Grantaire said impatiently. His hand had stilled against the page but he refused to lift his eyes. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, we do deal very much in the physical hereabouts.’

‘But that’s not an argument at all. You’re beautiful.’ He ignored Grantaire’s disbelieving snort. ‘The First Among Thirteen couldn’t ask for better,’ he insisted.

‘The First Among Thirteen sold me when I was eight years old,’ Grantaire said sharply, finally looking up at him. ‘Will you stop this, please?’

Enjolras bristled. It was an automatic reaction to being snapped at; some of his patrons liked to test his cool disdain by trying to command him, and his training won out every time:  _never let anyone talk down to you, never allow yourself to be ordered about, Naamah bestowed herself like a queen and you must do no less_. He lifted his chin and retreated into his cold shell, and Grantaire watched it happen with some regret.

‘Why do you never try to touch me, Grantaire?’

Grantaire took a deep breath and set the sketch and the charcoal down on the bench. He supposed he should have had more sense than to provoke Enjolras, but then, Enjolras should have known better than to pursue that particular topic with Grantaire. ‘I think you should go,’ he suggested quietly. ‘If you stay we’ll only quarrel.’

‘What’s to quarrel about? It’s a simple enough question.’ Enjolras fixed him with a determined blue stare and Grantaire felt his heart kick traitorously in his chest. ‘Do you think I’d object?’

‘I don’t know,’ Grantaire said, hating the flush he could feel creeping up his neck.

‘But you hope I wouldn’t.’ Enjolras hurled the words at him, emotionless but for the hint of judgment implicit in the phrasing. ‘You’ve thought about it.’

Grantaire swallowed and looked away. ‘Of course I have. How not?’

‘And how does it go, when you imagine it? Is it good?’

‘Yes,’ he whispered helplessly, ashamed.

‘Then why do you never  _try_  it?’ Enjolras demanded, and suddenly there was a wealth of frustration in his voice. It startled Grantaire badly enough that he looked up and met his eyes.

‘I’m beneath you,’ he said, stumbling over the words. ‘Imagination is one thing, but I’d never, I don’t deserve—I don’t expect that, Enjolras, I swear it—’

‘You are  _not_  beneath me,’ Enjolras interrupted, and Grantaire fell silent. ‘You are fascinating and clever and talented, and I have been trying to tell you these things for weeks but you refuse to hear me.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Grantaire protested. ‘I’m none of those things, and your saying that I am only makes me dread the day you realize your error.’

‘Truth is subjective, Grantaire, haven’t you been listening?  _Listen_.’ It was a command; Grantaire obeyed. ‘I  _want_  you to touch me. I don’t know how much more plainly I can say it.’

Grantaire flushed violently and stared fixedly at a blade of grass. He searched for a response, but none came; his mind would allow him no thought but the echo of those impossible words. A sort of quiet panic filled his chest.

Enjolras sighed. ‘They don’t teach us to beg in Dahlia house—’

‘Don’t,’ Grantaire said quickly, looking up and finding Enjolras watching him intently. It sent an unexpected shiver down his spine. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t…’ He trailed off, unsure how to finish. ‘Is this a joke?’

Enjolras’ supremely unimpressed look was all the answer he needed, but that didn’t make  _sense_.

‘Me?’ he said finally. ‘You want  _me_?’

Enjolras rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve fallen in love with an idiot,’ he told the heavens, and then pinned Grantaire with a positively predatory look. ‘I want  _you_. Yes.’

‘That’s—forgive me, but that is utterly mad,’ Grantaire said. ‘Can you hear yourself?’

‘I’m not going to argue with you about it,’ Enjolras said haughtily.

‘I should hope not!’

Enjolras’ look turned calculating. ‘I  _will_  beg, though.’

Grantaire rocked back, shocked into laughter. ‘I thought they didn’t teach you to beg.’

‘They didn’t,’ Enjolras agreed calmly. ‘That doesn’t mean I’ve never seen it done.’ And he shifted to kneel  _abeyante_ at Grantaire’s feet, eyes lowered submissively.

Grantaire’s laughter died in his throat. This was all wrong. No Dahlia adept was ever meant to kneel. The most disconcerting thing about it was that, despite his discomfort, he had to admit that it made an enticing picture—this achingly perfect creature on his knees, with his hands clasped and his golden head bowed, like an angel at prayer. Grantaire felt a wholly unexpected rush of arousal at the mere idea of Enjolras submitting to him, of Enjolras  _begging_  to have his hands on him. Shame coiled in his belly even as his pulse quickened, because he’d never wanted this; but now that he was presented with it, he was vaguely horrified at his own eagerness to accept.

 ‘Stop that,’ he pleaded.

Even on his knees, Enjolras radiated a sense of self-possession; there was a definite tinge of amusement in his voice when he spoke, as if he knew without looking how ill at ease Grantaire was with this entire situation. ‘I haven’t started yet, sir.’

Grantaire blushed so hard at the deferential form of address that it brought tears to his eyes. ‘Don’t call me that. And  _don’t_  start.’

‘I’m sorry that you find me displeasing,’ Enjolras murmured. ‘Permit me an opportunity to earn your favour.’

‘No,’ Grantaire said quickly. He had a distant thought that he should simply walk away, but that seemed impossible; he was frozen in place. ‘You can earn my favour by  _stopping this_. What is it you’re hoping to gain?’

‘I believe I made that clear, sir,’ Enjolras replied without lifting his gaze.

‘You’re doing this to get me to touch you?’ Grantaire asked incredulously.

‘Yes, sir. Please, sir. I’ll be so good for you. You can have me any way you want, only please, please just  _touch me—_ ’

Thoroughly flustered, Grantaire reached out almost without meaning to, grazing Enjolras’ cheek with charcoal-blackened fingers and leaving dark smudges on his fair skin. Enjolras’ hand snapped up to seize his forearm and hold him in place; he finally glanced up and met Grantaire’s eyes as he turned his head and pressed his lips against the sensitive skin at the inside of Grantaire’s wrist.

‘Was that so difficult?’ Enjolras asked, and damn him, he was smirking, while Grantaire could do nothing but stare and blush and tremble. After a moment of silence he narrowed his eyes and asked, with his usual directness: ‘Are you a virgin?’

Grantaire wrenched free of his grasp and glared. ‘I grew up in the Night Court. What do you think?’

Enjolras lifted one shoulder. He was still kneeling, but at least he was looking directly at Grantaire now. ‘I thought I should ask. I’ve never seen anyone outside of Alyssum blush like that.’

Grantaire felt his embarrassment sharpen into anger, and suddenly he found himself perfectly capable of getting to his feet. So he did.

‘I’m glad you’re so entertained!’ He tried to snap, but it came out sounding strangled, like he was on the verge of tears. He flexed his hands nervously, rubbed at the charcoal dust on the pads of his fingers—anything to ignore the way Enjolras was staring at him. He didn’t even want to try deciphering that look.

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras said, and his voice was soft and careful in a way that Grantaire couldn’t stand to hear right now—it was too close to pity, to apology, to chagrin, to a hundred other things Grantaire had never wished to inspire in Enjolras.

He was walking away before he’d made a conscious decision to do so, but once he’d started he found he couldn’t stop.

 

⁂

That night Grantaire spent more than the cost of his last two commissions on a night with Jehan in Gentian house. Jehan welcomed him with grave understanding, and it was more than worth the setback to buying his marque back—it always was. For all that they were friends, Jehan was skilled in his art, and Grantaire could do no less than pay him what he was due for it.

Gentian’s canon was mysticism and purity of spirit; its adepts were trained in visionary arts, and valued by its patrons for their skills in divination and interpretation of dreams. Jehan had made his marque at the age of 20, and chose to stay in the Night Court afterward, a decision for which Grantaire had good cause to be grateful.

Jehan specialized in a type of divination called ceromancy: fortune-telling with candle wax. Grantaire would have been the first to scoff at it if he’d never seen him at work. As it was, he reserved judgment. Regardless of the reason, Jehan’s advice had never proved to be anything less than wise in all the years they’d known each other.

Jehan waved away the discreetly hovering apprentices as soon as Grantaire was admitted to his chamber, and stood to greet him with a kiss and a long, searching look.

‘Oh,’ he said, and a smile broke out across his face. ‘You’re in love.’

Grantaire rolled his eyes. ‘I knew you’d say that. I haven’t even explained yet.’

‘Sit down and tell me,’ Jehan said simply, and busied himself preparing the poppy tea he liked to serve if he could convince his patrons to choke it down. Grantaire, long accustomed to drinking liquor harsh enough to make a sailor wince, never offered any complaint.

So Grantaire told him what had transpired, and then obediently swallowed the tea Jehan offered him. It was intensely bitter, as usual, but he knew the effects were worth it so he forced himself to finish it as quickly as possible. It was a waiting game now; it would be half an hour before the lightness and euphoria began to set in.

Fortunately, Jehan knew plenty of ways to pass the time.

‘Why did you walk away?’ he asked calmly. From anyone else it would have sounded accusatory and made Grantaire feel even more foolish than he already did—but this was Jehan, with his long hair unbraided, his spring-green satin robe slipping down his shoulders, his attention apparently focused on divesting Grantaire of his clothes, and it was impossible to feel hounded or mocked by his questioning. He wasn’t exasperated, he didn’t think Grantaire was impossible or stupid; he simply wanted to know.

‘I had to,’ Grantaire said honestly. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

The first time he had been persuaded to allow Jehan to undress him he’d been sick with anxiety; Jehan had taken his time, and thankfully said nothing, but kissed every inch of skin as it had been revealed, and the complete lack of surprise or censure in his eyes had been enough to drive Grantaire to tears. Tonight he was easier with it, knowing it was nothing Jehan hadn’t seen before.

‘You were overwhelmed,’ Jehan suggested, gently guiding Grantaire back onto a frankly enormous pile of pillows. He pushed his robe off and followed him down with consummate grace, naked as the day he was born and completely unselfconscious about it. ‘Were you afraid?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire said instantly, and it was true, but for some reason he hadn’t be able to admit it—even to himself—until Jehan had asked.

Jehan ceased his interrogation for a moment, rolling onto his stomach and claiming Grantaire’s left hand in his own. He placed a careful kiss on the same spot Enjolras had kissed, on the inside of his wrist, and felt Grantaire tense slightly and then force himself to relax. He chose not to comment on his reaction, but continued trailing kisses up his arm, unhurried and almost thoughtful about it. Grantaire sank back into the pillows and shut his eyes, knowing that Jehan did everything in his own time, and there was no point trying to rush him.

‘What were you afraid of?’ Jehan murmured when he’d reached the outer edge of Grantaire’s collarbone.

Grantaire didn’t open his eyes. ‘I’m not sure. I hadn’t thought.’

‘So think,’ Jehan advised softly, and resumed pressing kisses to his skin, as if to say,  _I’ll wait_. He moved slowly up to Grantaire’s throat, and Grantaire tilted his head back to allow him easier access.

‘I was afraid that he meant it,’ he said eventually. Jehan hummed encouragingly and his mouth opened against his skin, tongue tracing his pulse with effortless precision. ‘It was—too much.’

‘Too much of what?’ Jehan prompted, before moving up to his ear and laying careful, teasing kisses up along the delicate skin just behind it. Grantaire shivered and couldn’t answer for a moment.

‘Responsibility,’ he said, trying not to writhe where he lay when Jehan scraped his teeth lightly across his earlobe. ‘I was afraid I’d ruin everything. And I did. I didn’t know what to do with it and I panicked—’

Jehan pulled back, and Grantaire opened his eyes. Jehan was looking at him as if he’d said something unbearably sad. ‘You didn’t ruin anything, Grantaire.’

‘I walked away.’

‘Yes,’ Jehan said steadily, ‘you walked away, which isn’t a resolution at all. Does it feel resolved to you?’

‘No,’ Grantaire muttered.

‘Then it very likely doesn’t feel resolved to him, either. If you talk to him, he’ll listen. He loves you.’

Grantaire shook his head automatically. ‘He doesn’t. He  _can’t_.’

‘Why not?’ Jehan asked patiently.

‘Because I’m—’  _unlovable_  ‘—me. I drink too much and I’m, I’m half-Yeshuite, I’m nothing like what he needs—what he deserves.’

‘Oh?’ Jehan nudged his thighs apart so he could kneel neatly between them, stretching up over his body to inscribe a line of slow open-mouthed kisses from the spot where his breastbone ended down to his navel. He paused there, and Grantaire had to resist the urge to lift his hips in invitation. Jehan knew precisely what he was doing, and as in anything else, he would not be rushed here. ‘You don’t think Enjolras deserves someone who loves him?’

‘Elua! You know that’s not what I mean,’ Grantaire bit out impatiently. ‘At any rate, I doubt I’m the only person to have fallen in love with him.’

‘You’re the only one he loves in return,’ Jehan observed mildly, and ducked a little lower to set his lips, and then his teeth and tongue, against Grantaire’s hip. Grantaire exhaled roughly and stared at the ceiling, resolutely holding himself still. ‘Does that not mean anything to you?’ he asked, and switched his attentions to the other hip, his hair trailing across Grantaire’s thighs and belly and creating a riot of almost ticklish sensation.

‘Of course it does,’ Grantaire replied, struggling through a haze of lust to think clearly.

‘And what do you intend to do about it?’ Jehan asked. He was moving lower, nipping gently at his inner thigh, his hair an unbearably light tease across Grantaire’s increasingly hypersensitive flesh.

‘I don’t  _know_ , Jehan, that’s why I came to see you,’ and Grantaire was almost whimpering now, on the verge of begging, which was apparently exactly what Jehan had been aiming for.

Grantaire felt him smile against his thigh before he lifted his head, gathering his hair expertly in one hand and twisting it to one side so it lay in a heavy coil over his right shoulder. He shot Grantaire a satisfied smile before he leaned forward and licked a stripe up his cock, following the vein on the underside.

Grantaire lifted a hand to his mouth and bit the back of it to keep from making any ridiculous noises this early on, but Jehan was a difficult man to fool. He got a grip on the base of Grantaire’s cock and a breath of laughter warmed the skin there for a second before he finally,  _finally_  sucked the tip of his cock into his mouth and set about slowly, carefully, methodically sliding his lips down to meet his hand. He was an adept of the Night Court; he was good at this, and he knew it.

He didn’t hesitate; he opened his throat for Grantaire and received him willingly, holding for a few seconds before pulling back up. His grip changed as he did so, loosening slightly and giving a few slow strokes over skin now slick with saliva. His tongue flickered over the head of Grantaire’s cock before he sank back down, not as far this time, holding back a little and settling into a rhythm as his hand pumped up to meet his mouth. Every so often he’d sink all the way down, taking Grantaire as deep as he could; Grantaire supposed he knew without asking that he loved the way it looked, watching his cock slide up between swollen red lips until Jehan’s pert little nose was buried in dark curls, and all he could see was reddish-blond hair spilling over his thighs in unruly waves.

When Jehan didn’t want him to last long, it was a safe bet that he would not; this was one of those times. Grantaire got a hand in Jehan’s hair and tugged lightly in warning, and Jehan pulled up a little and swirled his tongue around the head of his cock while the movement of his hand quickened slightly—and that was it, Grantaire was gone in a series of gasping staccato breaths, head thrown back, back arched, hips bucking weakly. Jehan swallowed and moved up to offer Grantaire the taste of himself on his tongue, settling into languid, heady kisses while Grantaire caught his breath.

‘Are you ready to light a candle, capital R?’ Jehan asked after a few minutes, and his smile was wide and slow. ‘I’ll see what I can tell you.’

 

⁂

The last thing Grantaire expected when he returned to Eglantine house the following morning was to find Enjolras and Éponine standing outside the door to the adepts’ living quarters, engaged in what might have been the most awkward conversation Grantaire had ever had the misfortune to witness. Éponine was wrapped in an elaborately embroidered midnight blue silk robe, with her dark hair caught up in a hastily-done lover’s knot. She looked unhappily startled, off-balance and harried and clearly not in the mood for this nonsense at the crack of dawn. Enjolras, on the other hand, looked worn-out and slightly manic, as if he’d been up all night; he was fully dressed in the clothes he’d been wearing yesterday, and his hair was hanging limply over one shoulder in a tight braid.

‘If he doesn’t want to see you there’s nought I can do about it,’ Éponine was saying uneasily. If she were a cat her fur would have been bristling, Grantaire was sure of it. ‘Glaring at me isn’t going to help,’ she added tartly.

Enjolras laced his fingers at the nape of his neck and tilted his head back, sighing heavily. ‘Will you at least tell me where he is?’

Grantaire chose that moment to announce himself with some unnecessarily loud walking. The relief on Éponine’s face when she caught sight of him would have had him laughing if the circumstances had been different.

‘Elua, I thought you were never coming back!’ she exclaimed. She glanced between Grantaire and Enjolras, cleared her throat, and pointedly vanished back to her quarters.

Enjolras took a step towards him as if on instinct, but then he caught himself and stopped there. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He looked downright apprehensive, which was an expression Grantaire had certainly never expected to see on his face.

Grantaire took a deep breath and nodded. ‘I know. I am, too.’

‘I should never have—’

‘No, you’re forgiven,’ Grantaire interrupted. ‘I don’t want you to grovel. You’re much too good at it,’ he added with a wry grin, ‘and that’s what caused the trouble in the first place.’

Enjolras smiled hopefully. ‘You’re joking. Elua be thanked, you’re making  _jokes_.’

‘I do that quite a lot, you know.’ Grantaire noticed that there were still traces of charcoal on Enjolras’ cheek. ‘Have you been up all night?’

‘Yes,’ Enjolras admitted. ‘I couldn’t sleep, not after—that. I had an assignation booked but I cancelled. I wouldn’t have been worth anyone’s money last night, at any rate. Where  _were_  you?’

Grantaire shifted guiltily. He had obviously passed a much more pleasant night than Enjolras. ‘I went to see Jehan,’ he said reluctantly.

Oddly, Enjolras looked relieved to learn this. ‘Good,’ he said, with unexpected feeling. ‘Did he help?’

‘Yes,’ Grantaire said truthfully. ‘He found the kindest possible way to inform me that I behaved like a coward and a fool. And then he told me in no uncertain terms that I should find you and do whatever it takes to correct this. But you found me first, which—’

‘Grantaire,’ Enjolras interrupted, ‘I don’t want to hear what Jehan thinks. I want to hear what  _you_  think.’

Grantaire hesitated, and then said, ‘Not here.’

Enjolras blinked and looked around, as if belatedly realizing they were not only in public but in a thoroughfare which was about to become rather busy as the house residents stirred. ‘Where, then?’

‘Will you come to my room? It’s not much, and you needn’t stay, but—’

‘Yes,’ Enjolras said quickly, so Grantaire lead the way.

His room was at the very back of the building. It was long and narrow, with a high ceiling and two large windows set high in the north-facing wall. There was a bed—far larger and more luxurious than Grantaire required, but then, he did live in a brothel—and a haphazard collection of art supplies heaped on a desk in the corner, and not much else. Enjolras stepped in slowly, looking around, and Grantaire closed the door behind them and tried not to fidget. He hardly ever let anyone back here; Éponine was permitted, although they generally preferred her room to his, and Favrielle would sometimes sneak in to leave new clothes on the end of his bed, but that was all.

Enjolras regarded it as if it were a temple, and Grantaire couldn’t seem to make his heart beat at its usual pace.

‘It’s not much,’ he repeated lamely. Enjolras turned and looked at him. Even after a night spent wired and sleepless he was still the most breathtaking person Grantaire had ever seen. He reached for words to articulate this, but what came out of his mouth was, ‘I’m not afraid anymore,’ which really wasn’t what he had meant to say at all, and actually wasn’t even true—he was terrified—but he wasn’t willing to let it keep him from opening up to something the both of them wanted, and he knew that was easier said than done but he was  _trying_.

Enjolras knew what he meant. He smiled—a real smile, the one he was careful never to show in public, because Dahlia adepts didn’t show emotion for just  _anyone_ —and held out his hand, a question and an invitation, standing still and waiting for Grantaire to come to him.

Grantaire did.

Enjolras caught his outstretched hand and brought it up, baring his wrist for a kiss in the same place he’d kissed him yesterday, before he tilted Grantaire’s chin up with the fingers of his free hand and claimed his mouth. It was a contrast to Jehan’s delicate almost-teasing; both were skilled and evidently well-practiced, but where Jehan preferred to hold back and make Grantaire chase him, Enjolras was warm and immediate and close to demanding. It was dizzying, intoxicating, a thousand times better than opium and far more addictive. Grantaire clung to him and gave as good as he got, his nervousness forgotten.

And then his hand encountered Enjolras’ uncharacteristic braid, and he pulled back slightly. ‘You need to sleep,’ he said, with as much conviction as he could manage with Enjolras pressed flush against him.

Enjolras sighed and kissed Grantaire’s temple. ‘Lacking that potent mix of guilt and anxiety to fuel me, I fear you’re right.’

‘Could you sleep here?’ Grantaire asked tentatively.

Enjolras graced him with another smile. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said softly, toying with Grantaire’s curls. ‘Will you join me?’

Grantaire wouldn’t have refused him for the world.

They slept, curled together like cats in the sun, with Enjolras’ body bracketing Grantaire’s and their fingers linked tightly over Grantaire’s stomach. If he had ever felt so safe and adored before, he couldn’t recall it.


End file.
